Every night the beam sweeps the sea. Every night something looks back.
Explicit • monster erotica • size difference • rough primal sex • breeding • storm-soaked nights • 18+
The storm arrived on the third month of her solitude. Rain lashed the tower like fists. At 2:17 a.m. something knocked, three slow, deliberate blows against the iron door a hundred feet below.
Eira opened it anyway.
He filled the doorway: eight feet of muscle and scale, skin the color of deep water, eyes glowing like the lamp itself. Water poured off him in sheets. Between his thighs hung a cock thicker than her forearm, ridged, already half-hard and dripping with something that smelled like brine and sex.
She should have screamed. Instead she stepped aside.
He fucked her against the spiral stairs that first night, one massive hand over her mouth, the other lifting her clean off the ground, splitting her open on that monstrous length until she saw stars brighter than the beacon above.
He returned every storm. She began leaving the door unlatched and herself naked on the cot, knees spread, cunt already slick with anticipation. Some nights he took her mouth first, forcing her jaw wide until tears ran, roaring as he flooded her throat with thick, salty cum that tasted of the abyss. Other nights he bent her over the railing outside, wind screaming, pounding into her while lightning flashed across the ridges of his back and the sea roared its approval below.
One night he carried her all the way to the top, past the sleeping quarters, into the sacred lantern room itself. The great lens turned slowly around them, bathing their bodies in sweeping golden light. He laid her on the narrow catwalk and entered her in one brutal thrust. She screamed into the storm as the beam painted them for any ship at sea to witness: a mortal woman impaled and writhing on sea-born cock, breasts bouncing, back arched in ecstasy while the light flashed across miles of black water again and again.
The biggest storm of the century arrived in November. The door blew open and four of them came this time, his brothers, just as massive, cocks even thicker, eyes hungry. They passed her between them for hours: on her knees, on her back, suspended in the air between two of them, every hole filled, cum and seawater dripping from her body in rivers. When they finally bred her, all four one after another, pumping her womb full until it spilled down her thighs in thick waves, she came so hard she blacked out with the lighthouse beam still sweeping across her ruined, blissful smile.
Spring came. Her belly swelled round and heavy with something that moved like tide and storm. She still climbs the stairs every night, naked, glowing, lantern burning bright. Ships now steer closer than they should, drawn by rumors of a woman who stands at the rail with monstrous hands on her hips, guiding them safely while something massive and scaled mates with her openly under the turning light.
She is no longer alone. She is the beacon now.
The lamp never goes out.